Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “The USSR holds that territory, don’t they?” she asked, then put her hand to her mouth, finally saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “For now, the Russians are in charge. The Hungarians have been several times before, and the Ottomans. The Romans gave the country its name, but the Daci were there before them, as were many others.” He met her eyes with his own steady gaze. “These things change, with time.”

  “You’re an”—she tried to choose a more polite term, but could not—“exile?”

  “For most of my life,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she responded. “No wonder you understand my situation.” As soon as she said it, she flushed with embarrassment. “I wish I could say something more comforting.”

  “You need not,” he answered. “I’m used to it.” He shrugged and changed the subject. “Shall I let you know when I plan to arrive in Paris?”

  She nodded. “If you would, please.”

  “If you will provide an address to Rogers before you leave? Thank you.” He rose. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Professor Treat. I must thank you for coming to Eclipse Press before seeking out another publisher.” He saw the astonished look in her eyes. “Well, you have not been in Europe very long, so what should I think than that Eclipse was your first choice?” With a half-bow, he took a step away. “I am sorry, but I must leave. Do finish your coffee. Zoltan will drive you back to your hotel whenever you like.”

  She watched him cross the entry-hall and vanish down a corridor on the far side of it. She sighed, trying to decide if she had succeeded or failed in this most perplexing interview. She wished she knew what to make of Grof Szent-Germain, and almost at once frowned as she strove to come up with a description she could offer to Harold when they spoke that evening. Twenty minutes later, as she left Eclipse Publishing, she had convinced herself that the less she said, the better it would be.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM BETTY-ANN PARKER IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, TO HER COUSIN, MOIRA FROST, IN PARIS, FRANCE, SENT AIR MAIL, DELIVERED THREE DAYS LATER.

  October 19, 1949

  Dear Cousin Moira,

  Uncle Howard asked me to send you news of the family, so I’m doing it. He’s afraid his mail’s being opened, and he doesn’t want to expose you and Tim to any more trouble than you’re already in. We’ve heard that the CIA is after you. Uncle Howard told me to ask you again if you wanted to send Regina to him and Aunt Clarise. He’s worried about her schooling, you know, and says that he will be glad to act as her guardian as long as you and Tim are away. Uncle Howard says he’s still trying to find a lawyer who’ll take your case for something less than a ten-thousand-dollar fee. Who has ten thousand dollars they can spare? No luck so far, but he’s going to keep looking. He wants the family to kick in something to help you and your family out. It doesn’t seem fair that you have to stay in Europe just because you can’t get a good lawyer. If criminals can do it, you should be able to, shouldn’t you? It’s not like you robbed a bank.

  The Thanksgiving’s going to be at Uncle Frederick’s this year, in Raleigh. He remarried last August as you should know, and he’s eager to have the family meet Alexis, get to know her. Mom tells me that she doesn’t know if we should attend, given the uproar there’s been about their marriage, Alexis being a Catholic and all. I think she’s being too fussy, but several of the family members share her feelings. Uncle Clay has already said he and Doreen can’t make it, and Uncle Frederick thinks this means that Uncle Clay doesn’t approve of his new wife. There’s an uproar in the making. I’ll tell you how it turns out.

  I made the swim-team at last; I’ll be competing in the butterfly. They’re starting girls’ swim meets with some of the other high schools in the district, and I volunteered for them. They took me! Ward Springer High School has had a new pool built and they’re upgrading the main building and adding a real auditorium, which means for now, half our classes are in trailers. The new buildings should be ready by the time I graduate. Everyone says it’s worth it, but it feels strange to go to school in a trailer. I’m taking Math and English and American History and Home Economics and French. PE is swimming, of course. And there’s a study hall every day. Next year we get Science instead of American History. Principal Houghton is very excited about Science, saying it is the wave of the future, and half of the Board of Education agrees with him. In my junior year, we’ll have a choice of Biology or Chemistry.

  Grandfather Larkin has been doing poorly. He’s having heart trouble, and his doctor says he’s not going to be around much longer. Mom and Uncle Clay have hired a housekeeper for him, and there’s a nurse who checks on him once a week. He’s almost 64, and that’s a respectably long life—everyone says so, even Grandfather Larkin. Mom’s upset, but he is her father after all, so what else would she be. She says she may go spend some time with him while she can.

  Henry Lee is in fourth grade now, and being rascally. Mom has tried to get him to mind his manners, but no luck so far. The neighbors said that he killed a cat out in the woods behind our houses, but Henry Lee says he didn’t, and you know Mom will stand by her son come rain or shine. Daddy is a little less certain, but he isn’t about to take the neighbors’ side against his own flesh and blood. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but you could probably figure it out. You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? You’d know what to do to make him behave. I know you can’t come back right now, but it would sure be helpful if you could.

  I went to see The Red Shoes, and thought of you the whole time, and not just because of Moira Shearer. Daddy said it’s not possible to film ballet well, but I think he’s wrong about that. You should go see it if you get the chance. I also saw The Third Man and I can’t understand what the fuss is all about. I don’t suppose spies are really like that, not even in Europe. I like Orson Welles, though. He’s not a dreamboat like Clark Gable, but he’s got something about him. Maybe it’s his reputation for getting into trouble, or maybe it’s his voice. You have to look at him, and hear him. Daddy says he’s arrogant and irresponsible—there was that War of the Worlds broadcast—but maybe he’s a genius, too.

  I’m not supposed to ask what you’ve been doing to keep body and soul together, but if you want to tell me, I’d like to know. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you and Cousin Tim. I won’t tell any of the family—or anyone else.

  We’ve been to the VA hospital to see Dennis Crowder; he’s got a prosthetic leg and hand, and they’ve done more operations on his face, but he still looks like something out of a bad movie. He puts on a good front, but it’s obvious that he is really down in the dumps about his injuries, and his prospects. He told me he doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself for the rest of his life. No one’s going to hire him, he’s certain of that.

  Cousin Emily is going to have her baby next month, or so her doctor says. She may be having twins. Claude is pleased as punch, but Emily only wants it to be over. She waddles like a duck and her feet and ankles look like rising dough most of the time. After four years of marriage, everyone was beginning to wonder, but the way things look now, they’re making up for lost time. Emily says she likes it in Florida except for the bugs. Claude got a promotion when they moved, so he’s pleased.

  Anyway, this should catch you up. Daddy’s tucked in a note to you, as you can see. I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas. We’re all looking forward to the day you can come home again all of you.

  Love,

  Your cousin, Betty-Ann

  2

  BY MID-MORNING, a squall came whipping up the Adriatic, the sea churning and frothing as it swept into the lagoon, stirring up the canals that made Venezia famous; boats of all sizes and purposes rocked in the surging water, a few of them banging against their narrow berths or the walls of houses as an accompaniment to the bluster of the wind. In his palazzo, Szent-Germain closed and shuttered his windows, then turned on the lamps over the extensive trestle table where he was working; the generator behind
his laboratory in what had been a dovecote made a steady purr. It had been a demanding few days for Szent-Germain, for he wanted to keep his work from dragging on another week, forcing him to delay his departure once again: just now he was grateful for an hour or two dedicated to alchemy instead of the installation of an additional press at the Venezian branch of Eclipse Publishing, or devoting himself to the intricacies of Venezian business law. There had been too many things demanding his attention, and now he needed some privacy. The day had turned cold and damp, and although he was not often troubled by temperature, he had donned a black wool roll-top pullover and a fashionably cut Milanese sport-coat of black alpaca; the fabric had been a gift from Madelaine de Montalia when she returned from Cuzco, and the tailor who made it had waxed lyrical over the soft, light, warm cloth. His black slacks were the handiwork of his British tailor of a wool-and-Angora blend; his thick-soled shoes were made in Firenze of black leather, and fitted more like gloves than shoes.

  “My master?” Rogers called from outside the door; he spoke in the dialect of northern Italy. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but you have a visitor.”

  “Who is it?” Szent-Germain asked as he set his box of newly made gold in the safe beneath the table. He could still feel some residual warmth through the bronze-and-brass box. “I gather this is a stranger.”

  “Someone from the American Department of State,” Rogers replied. “His card says William C. Bereston, United States of America Department of State, Undersecretary for International Film and Publication for Western Europe. He said he’s hoping to regularize dealings with American and European copyright conventions.”

  Szent-Germain stood up, dusted off the fine residual powder from the gold, and went to open the door. “Film and Publication—that’s a new approach,” he mused, turning out the overhead light. “Where did you put this William C. Bereston?”

  “In the library, as usual,” Rogers said.

  “From your manner, you would seem to doubt Mister Bereston’s credentials, old friend,” Szent-Germain remarked as he stepped out of his laboratory to join Rogers in the corridor; he closed and locked the door.

  “Not his credentials so much as his purpose for coming to you; he’s too open and genial by half,” said Rogers. “There is something off about him; it’s not obvious, but it’s there—you’ll see what I mean. It’s not that he smiles a great deal—Americans do that—it’s something else.”

  Szent-Germain gave a single nod. “You have a keen sense for deception, and if you perceive it here, as I gather you do, what makes you think that William Bereston is not what he claims to be?”

  Rogers, who had been speaking English, continued in Byzantine Greek. “There is a … quality of furtiveness about him. He insisted on hanging up his own hat and overcoat. He looks about as if he were planning to rob the fine things you have. They’re little things, but they don’t ring true.” He shook his head. “Oh, I have no doubt that he serves his country in some capacity—he may even be functioning through the Department of State—but in an ancillary fashion.”

  “A spy, then?” Szent-Germain suggested in the same language.

  “Or some other sort of clandestine operative,” Rogers said as they went toward the front staircase to descend to the main floor.

  “What other sort is there?” Szent-Germain asked, an ironic note in his voice.

  “Think of Telemachus Batsho,” Rogers reminded him.

  “Why would an American bureaucrat seek me out? What does he think I can do for him?” Szent-Germain sounded weary; there had been so many times when people had come looking for him, with good or ill intentions, and most of those instances had been disruptive in one way or another. “Unless it is as you say, and he is some manner of operative and has a specific assignment to fulfill, which is another matter entirely.” He thought briefly of the early part of the century when he himself was given a clandestine mission by Czar Nicholas of Russia; in spite of his best efforts, the assignment had failed.

  “He may have questions about your time in America,” Rogers warned.

  “Why?” As he asked, a number of troublesome possibilities rose in his mind, and recollections of Srau, of Rhea, of Gennaro Emerenzio, of Colombius of Malta, of—he made himself stop; he gave his attention to Rogers.

  “He may want to discover your vulnerabilities,” Rogers said.

  “That could be a problem for Rowena; I’ll book a phone-call with the exchange, and let her know, so she can decide how to proceed,” Szent-Germain said, casting his thoughts back to his pleasant reunion with the artist in San Francisco shortly before the outbreak of World War II, and more than twenty-five years after their first affaire in Amsterdam in the years before World War II.

  “Among others,” Rogers said. “Oscar King should be told as well, for the Pietragnellis as well as the properties in San Francisco. We don’t know who is keeping an eye on any of them, and that is worrisome. Possibly sending letters from a name unknown, so that there will be no alerts among the watchers, to protect your associates and other Americans who have dealings with you.”

  “You’re right; and perhaps letters to the Canadian branches of Eclipse as well,” Szent-Germain said thoughtfully. “They’re bound to feel the pressure from the United States. It’s a shame that it should come to this, whatever this may be.”

  “It is,” Rogers said, his austere features revealing little of his thoughts.

  Szent-Germain stared into the distance for a long moment, then said in English, “There’s no use to borrow trouble. I’d best find out what the man wants.”

  Rogers nodded. “It is unfortunate,” he said in Italian, then went on in English, “He may have questions about the current state of Eclipse Publishing, and little more than that.”

  “He may, but neither you nor I believes that,” said Szent-Germain in a tone that revealed his doubt; he went on in Byzantine Greek. “Have you ordered Arrigo to prepare some hors d’oeuvres for this William C. Bereston? Or perhaps breakfast would be more appropriate, hearty enough to assure him of his welcome, but not too overwhelming. Best set up the morning room for our discussion: there’s bound to be one, by the sound of it.” They were halfway down the stairs, on the broad landing that looked down on the loggia, and the canal beyond. The floor was inlaid marble in a complex pattern of Baroque swirls, and the walls glowed with gold-leaf murals of Venezian history.

  “No reason to keep it secret,” Rogers said in English. “It is taken care of. I have Arrigo readying something suitable, and sent Ettore to open a bottle of Burgundy from your larger French vineyard.” He smiled briefly.

  “I needn’t have asked; accept my apologies,” said Szent-Germain, slipping his ring of keys into an inner pocket of his jacket. “Is there any reason to think that Mister Bereston will refuse our hospitality?”

  “He may refuse the wine.” Rogers took a moment to consider this. “You know how Americans are about abstaining while working.”

  “None better,” Szent-Germain said in English, and resumed his descent. “Geyserville showed us what Prohibition had done to those making beer and wine and stronger liquors, and many of the citizens approved the idea if not the reality.”

  “And that is seen in more than what had become of the wineries,” said Rogers. “Shall I have a fire lit in the morning room? There’s one already laid.”

  “If you would. It’s going to be clammy in there if there’s no fire.” He and Rogers parted company at the foot of the stairs, and Szent-Germain went along to his library. He opened the door and found a tawny-brown-haired man in his late twenties, in an American-cut suit of navy blue looking over his shelves, his brows drawn down in distress. “Mister Bereston? I am Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain. What may I do for you?”

  Bereston rounded on him, his open face and boyish smile concealing any hint of mendacious or sinister purpose, or the reason for his disapproval of the library. “Grof. A pleasure.” He held out his hand, and shook Szent-Germain’s heartily, all the while displa
ying an eager smile that did not reach his eyes. “Thank you for seeing me. I know this visit is unexpected, but you have been on the move these last ten days.”

  “And I will be again shortly; I leave for Paris the day after tomorrow,” Szent-Germain said, wondering if it had been a slip of the tongue or a disguised threat for Bereston to admit that he had been tracing Szent-Germain’s travels. “Restoring my publishing company’s branches is turning out to be a demanding task, and it will not happen without me. I’m sorry if this disaccommodates you, but such is the nature of business.”

  “Yes,” said Bereston, the smile vanishing as quickly as a magician’s silk scarf. “That’s one of the things I wish to speak with you about: your publishing companies. We have some questions for you, and better to ask them now than later.” His sunny face clouded, and the corners of his mouth twitched downward for an instant.

  “My publishing companies?” he echoed with an urbane smile. “Now why?”

  “Among other things, I said. I understand you have a shipping business as well.” His face was once again as guileless as a puppy’s.

  Szent-Germain regarded Bereston levelly. “Yes, I have. I have five offices in your country, and two dozen or so around the rest of the world. I’m still learning if a few of the more remote ones survived the war.” That was an underestimation, but he knew the actual figure would have Bereston on the alert, and that could lead to problems for all his agents and factors. “A few of the branches I used to have are now in the hands of foreign governments which incline to be unfriendly to some of the recent alliances that are emerging from the war. When all of these new treaties are ratified, we’ll proceed as best we can.” As you are probably aware, he added to himself.

  “An unfortunate turn of events, no doubt, though you are far from the only businessman to find himself in such a position. This is particularly true of men like you, engaged in international enterprises. There was so much subterfuge during the war that for many it is now a custom. You have much to contend with. I understand that: it’s why I’m here. Communists are grabbing all the fruits of international finance they can reach, in spite of their endorsement of Marxist ideology and the philosophy it proposes,” said Bereston, “to say nothing of how rapidly they are hoping to extend their sphere of influence.”